The Dogs

Ashleigh Angus

The dogs had been panting outside my door for three days. I could almost feel the warmth of their breath through the wood. I knew that if I opened it, I would be pressing into black fur, a paw, an open jaw. They would tear me to pieces. The largest dog was as tall as my hips; there was another only slightly smaller, and one pup, who looked to be less than a year old. The woman who owned them lived in the flat below mine and used to take the three of them out into the shared garden for half an hour every day. She never walked them, only watched as they tore through the yard, all black fur and yellow teeth, falling into holes they had made themselves and diving into the overgrown hedges, which were sturdier than the fences that leaned behind them. They only stopped to lap the water in the shell-shaped paddle pool the toddler in 1A liked to sit in. Three naked Barbie Dolls floated, face-down, inside it. The dolls’ arms were covered in scratches and teeth marks, just like mine were.

The woman never spoke to me, only ever glanced my way as I walked up or down the stairs, sometimes nodding her cigarette in greeting. I pulled the sleeves of my jumper over my palms when she did, though I should have been pulling them up; should have presented my bare wrists to her and said, ‘See? See what they did?’

The woman’s nails were as long as her dogs’, and I thought, those dogs could tear her to pieces.

I had been finding black fur in my apartment for months: on the curtains, my bed sheets, my clothes, the strands so thick they sometimes became wedged in my fingertips and toes.

I don’t know how they were doing it, but somehow, they were getting in.

One day I came in with groceries while the dogs were outside. The largest one bounded through the door as soon as it heard me, knocking its owner into the frame. It ripped one of the bags from my hand and began tearing through it. Pasta spilled onto the floor. It stamped eggshells into the carpet and made horrible gasping noises as it inhaled the carrots. It found a can of tomatoes and crushed it in its mouth in one bite. Red dripped down its chin and swirled around its teeth. The sweet metallic smell reminded me of blood.

The woman took hold of the dog’s collar. ‘He won’t bite,’ she said, tugging it away from the bag.

My throat was dry, and I wondered if I had been screaming.

‘It’s just the food,’ she continued. ‘He’s always hungry.’

She pulled it outside, and nudged the warped door closed with her foot, leaving me to pick up the groceries myself. I could hear her chanting, ‘That’s it—it’s okay—you’re alright,’ and though the words were not meant for me, I found them comforting.

I knelt next to the spilled groceries. No, I thought. No, no, no. I moved everything around just to be sure; there were no watery stains, no chunks of carrot. The eggs were lined up neatly in their carton.

I had seen it tear at the food, hadn’t I? I had smelt the tomato and tin.

I shook the packet of pasta. There were no holes in it. I thought about opening it up and pouring it onto the carpet just for something to clean.

‘It’s okay—you’re alright,’ I thought to myself in the woman’s voice.

I pulled my sleeves down over my wrists and placed everything back carefully.

My bed whined like the dogs when I moved. They liked to match its pitch when they were crouched under my bed. Sometimes they stayed there all night; other times, their stomachs would bring them out. I shut my eyes at the smallest of movements beside my bed. Their fur smelt like smoke and petrol. First, I would feel warm breath in my ears. Then, one of them pressed its wet nose into my cheek blindly before sliding it down my neck, and I thought please no, don’t bite there, and the wet trailed down, down, clinging to the hair on my arms, sniffing out my fingers, licking between them, then nudging my hand over, tasting the sweat on my palm, then breathing over my wrist, and I could feel it widening its mouth; saliva cooled the scratches there, and it pressed its teeth into my arm, tightening its grip slowly, the pain swelling steadily, until both my arm and head seemed to be floating up from the bed, and I wished it would just bite down into my bone and be done with it; none of this slow sucking. I felt my skin burst, smelled iron, and it pulled away. I almost wanted to reach for its head and pull it back, demanding it finish the job.

My fingernails were lined with blood the next morning. Fur was stuck to the inside of them.

I thought of going to the woman’s apartment and telling her what had been happening. ‘Help me,’ I would say. I pictured her reaching out for my hands and pressing her pointed nails into them.

She usually took the dogs out in the afternoon, so I made sure to do my shopping in the morning. But three days ago, when I came in with my groceries, I saw three shadows moving in the yard. I paused. Their noses flared and turned towards me. The woman was not standing in the doorway.

‘Hello?’ I called, hoping she was outside, but there was no answer. I was almost embarrassed, standing in front of them in the day, when all of us knew each other so well at night. They were the only ones I had shown my wrists to for months.

I took a step towards the stairs and so did they. I could feel their growls in my stomach. I slowed my breath so they wouldn’t think I was afraid. The largest one began skulking closer, its fur rippling over its ribs. The other two formed a line behind it.

The large one crouched and showed his teeth. They leaked blood and spit, and I thought, they have torn her to pieces.

I glanced at the paddle pool. The Barbies’ chewed up arms were no longer attached to their bodies, heads bobbed in the water, and their legs were spread over the surface, pink with blood.

Suddenly, my wrists collapsed beneath the weight of the groceries. The bags flopped onto the floor, spilling their guts. The large one started, and I ran up the stairs, two at a time, hearing the dogs tearing at the canvas bags, puncturing metal, clawing at plastic, their teeth snapping, tongues smacking, but at least one of them was more interested in me than the shopping, for I could feel something nipping at my heels and breathing behind my knees. I reached my top floor apartment, panting, determined not to look behind me, and forced my key into the lock. It seemed to have become too big for it; it wouldn’t turn. The metal cut into my hand. I jammed it in further, readying myself for pain, for a jaw to clamp around my calf, wondering when it would happen, why it hadn’t happened already, still hearing the dogs slapping at my groceries. Something dripped down my leg: sweat, piss, or drool. I turned the lock, and as I was shutting the door, I saw the smallest dog sitting on the stairs, its tail slapping the concrete. It closed its mouth and cocked its head to the side, and in its eyes, I saw my own.

Author’s note

I was struck by the ferocity of the dogs, suspended in the air alongside the fragile beauty of chandeliers — chandeliers that situate that ferocity in a domestic space which can hardly contain it. Thus, this story became a work about being uncomfortable in your own home, of sharing close quarters with others who are unknown and unpredictable, of the breaking down of boundaries inside those close quarters, and even of intruders — those who creep in the night and who are a frightening presence but a presence nonetheless; something to anchor your fear to that which exists outside of yourself.

Ashleigh Angus completed a collaborative PhD in Creative Writing at Curtin University and Aberdeen University in 2021. Her writing has been published in Axon, Causeway/Cabhsair, Pause (PWP Curtin, 2019) and Westerly